Sherry Christmas
by Ickle-Ronnikens
Summary: Set in a timeline unknown to the one in the BBC series, this short story is just something random I wrote down one evening. Sorry if it makes no sense.


Sherry Christmas

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or locations named in this story. If in any way they appear to be violated, discriminated, or out of proportion it is by no means on purpose.

Summary: Set in a timeline unknown to the one in the BBC series, these short stories cover a range of alternate circumstances faced by Holmes and Watson, where they must work together to come out trumps. Sorry if it makes no sense.

Christmas Eve was a time for all to celebrate. It was a joyous time of year, usually busy too, as families congregated from around the world to one place, just so they could eat turkey on a long table and wear silly little paper hats whilst a large pine tree sat decorated with silly ornaments in the corner. Personally, Sherlock Holmes found it all rather silly indeed. He had had enough of such pointless shenanigans as a child, and shuddered at the very idea of having to sit alone in a room for several hours on end with his family now days. Though of course, he was father had always been too busy for anyone, and anyway Sherlock would pay good money to see someone try and get his father away from his job simply for his own amusement. It was simply impossible, something he knew all too well.

Quite the stubborn old man, his father; though Sherlock never liked to admit it, such stubbornness had inevitably been passed onto him – and to his brother even. All three of them were quite stubborn indeed, but it was what help them all be so brilliant and what they did. Well, at least it made Sherlock an excellent detective – pardon me, "consultant".

But all the stubbornness in the world could not stop the state of boredom Sherlock Holmes was in.

Out of work and ever dampened by the Christmas holidays, it seemed crime had taken a break from him – and perhaps not the small and petty crime that he would never in a million years waste his brilliant mind on, but rather the murders, the mysteries, the murder mysteries and all those glitz and glamour cases that his reputation had forever been built on.

Instead the papers had focused on him, Inspector Sherlock Holmes as they called him, sporting his funny hat with his collar upturned and cheekbones pointed, the ever persistent Dr John Watson at his heels. This was entirely his fault, thought Sherlock. John Watson and his stupid blog. It had given him an image he never wanted. Robbed him of all self dignified image – more often than not these days he gets recognised by the very people he is attempting to capture.

So naturally, Sherlock did the only other thing that came naturally to him in a state like this: he made a complete mess of the apartment. Whatever the incentive was, the once untidy (yet not overly excessive untidy) apartment he had been sitting and sipping sherry in, suddenly lay hanging in tatters, and Sherlock stood staring at it from the far corner, admiring it almost like how he would admire a crime scene, taking in every miniscule detail, just to find the culprit.

Though of course, he knew quite well who the culprit was in this occasion, and he was awfully disheartened.

Upon thinking up this thought, he slumped backwards in his leather chair and sighed. He absent-mindedly reached for his mobile phone from his pocket and was surprise to find that he had received a text message whilst he had been pulling the apartment apart. His heart unnaturally skipped a beat when he spotted to whom had sent the message.

_From The Woman:_

"_Happy Christmas, Sherlock."_

The side of his mouth inclined ever momentarily as he put away his phone. He had not sent a message back in months, nor did he believe he ever would again. He let these three simple words brighten his evening ever acutely, and he was not even bothered when someone entered the room and brought him out of his reverie.

'Sherlock-?'

Mrs Hudson had appeared, seeking out the source of the noise she had heard below in her kitchen. Her jaw dropped as she stepped, ever precariously, into the ransacked apartment.

'Why, what's happened?' she asked frantically, looking here and there.

'Ransacked,' Sherlock said simply, picking up his sherry and sipping it.

'Good heavens,' Mrs Hudson threw herself down onto a kitchen chair, her hands running over her face. 'Who would do this? You aren't hurt, are you dear?'

'No Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock was quite calm, 'I am fine.'

Mrs Hudson looked relieved. But she was still hungry for answers.

'Was anything stolen?' she asked.

Sherlock took another careful sip of his sherry.

'I do not believe the perpetrator was seeking any goods,' Sherlock said carefully, 'and certainly I do not own any for them to find.'

'But, then why?' Mrs Hudson asked.

'Perhaps they were bored,' Sherlock said.

'Don't be silly,' Mrs Hudson said, 'who would go to so much trouble just because they were bored?'

'Oh but I know precisely who,' Sherlock smirked so widely that it started poor Mrs Hudson.

'You do?' she asked.

'Of course I do,' Sherlock said. 'Simple case of deduction, you see?'

'Then... who was it-?' said Mrs Hudson.

'Me!' ejaculated Sherlock, finally.

Mrs Hudson was ever surprised. She looked at him befuddled, clearly taken aback, and then her expression changed.

'Sherlock!'

And suddenly she was on her feet, looking very temperamental.

'You made me think that perhaps you were almost killed!' Mrs Hudson paced the room, 'do you honestly just do it for kicks? You're starting to test my patience young man. I can only turn a blind eye to your antisocial behaviour for so long, Mister.'

And she stormed from the room, cursing all the way downstairs. Several moments passed – they were bitter sweet, enjoyable and peaceful moments for Sherlock, the kind of moment that you could relive for an eternity and never get bored. However, the moment passed faster than the swear words that were coming out of Mrs Hudson's mouth – and John Watson entered the room.

Quite the peculiar man was he. Sherlock had never really figured him out completely. He never admitted this, of course, but there were many humane things about John Watson that stumped him. He could not figure out why a man of such integrity, who cared about people and liked all the people he met, could put up with a man whose sole purpose in life was to practice the exact opposite.

'I just passed Mrs Hudson on the stairs,' John said soundly, characteristically looking back over his shoulder and not spotting the mess in the apartment until he spoke again, 'she was cursing about something you've-'

And that was when he saw it.

Tables upturned; chairs broken and shattered; books ripped from their covers and even hurled across the room, the bookcase itself had been pushed over; lamp shades had been pulled off of lamps and ripped apart, the lamps themselves pulled from the electric sockets and chucked aimlessly away; the television lay face down, the glass shattered; and finally, my personal favourite, the poker from the fire had been embedded forcibly into the drywall.

John was taking in long, slow, drawn out breaths, his anger rising.

And then he was yelling. Yelling very loudly indeed. So loudly in fact that the dog next door could not even be heard barking.

After a while, once he had regained his composure, John eventually sat down. He and Sherlock sat in silence for a while; Mrs Hudson downstairs could be heard faintly, cursing to herself. The only other sound, besides from John's shallow breathing, was the bustle of traffic on the main road outside. A pin could have dropped and heard, even amongst all the odds and ends scattered about the room.

Once he was certain John was contempt and restful again, Sherlock took it upon himself to break the tension currently built up between them.

'So. Are you going to write _this_ up on your blog?'

They both laughed for quite some time.


End file.
